


Cutting a Path

by catratbatsnake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:08:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catratbatsnake/pseuds/catratbatsnake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story begins in the week leading up to the Sectumsempra incident (chapter 24 of HBP), and details the author's reimagingngs of how events might have proceeded, had things in the bathroom gone slightly differently.</p><p>Warning: assumes the reader is familiar with the canon (at least up until the end of HBP). Contains spoilers for HBP/DH.</p><p>All of the characters (et cetera) in this work are intellectual property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. The author makes no claim of ownership - merely enjoys exploring the Universe a little further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Off Kilter

Harry had been on edge all week. He was aware of this. He was constantly jittery, as though he were awaiting some kind of test. Harry supposed he was - the Quidditch match with Ravenclaw on the following Saturday was the final one of the year. The idea of having his name etched irremovably into the gold of the Cup made his heart swell with pride, but truly Harry wanted to win for the whole team: they deserved to win, after the sheer craziness of the year so far.

Harry let his mind wander toward potential match strategies as he followed the usual throng of students down the stone corridor to Transfiguration. Hermione chattered away at his side, going on about the theory behind the work they were currently doing on turning vinegar into wine. Ron kept butting in, trying not to show his desperation for Hermione’s attention, but Harry’s mind stayed focused on the upcoming game. Katie Bell had returned from St. Mungo’s only last week, and although Harry was slightly worried by the fact that she’d missed a stint of training, he knew that she was an experienced player who worked much better with the other Chasers than Dean Thomas had in his position as a reserve. Harry refused to admit to himself that since Ginny and Dean had begun dating, he’d found himself far more easily irritated by his friend and dorm-mate.

As the Transfiguration classroom loomed closer, Harry shook himself out of his reverie and back into the real world. Being away with the fairies in the presence of both Hermione and Professor McGonagall simply was not an option, especially since Harry strongly suspected that the Head of Gryffindor was almost as nervous about the match as he was himself, although she was doing a far better job of keeping it under wraps. He sighed to himself and set about retrieving his books from his bag and settling down next to Hermione.

 

By Thursday, the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team were even more nervous than Harry had been earlier in the week. At so much as a mention of the words “Quaffle” or “Ravenclaw”, Ron would turn a ghastly shade of greyish-white, and McGonagall and Flitwick had both sent several members of both teams out of lessons because they were too fretful to perform complex spells accurately. They were a sorry lot, Harry thought to himself, as the team lined up for their final pre-match practice.

After an hour or so in the air, putting the whole team through their paces on moves that some of them had played literally hundreds of times previously, Harry was beginning to feel more confident about their prospects for Saturday. He felt himself relaxing more, and began to enjoy the flight,and the view it provided above the castle and beyond.

Harry circled above the Quidditch pitch, enjoying the smooth loops his Firebolt made as he turned. In many ways, Seeker was the ideal position for a Quidditch captain: he could watch the rest of the team polishing up their skills, without abandoning his own role or compromising the team structure. Tonight, he focused particularly on the Chasers, and was once again delighted by the way Katie seemed to slip back into the team, almost as if she hadn’t missed over a month thanks to a cursed necklace… Harry distracted himself from such thoughts by watching the other Chasers, but found his mind wandering further, to a question he had often pondered of late: would Ron really mind if he were to go out with Ginny?

It had always been very clear, right from the very first time that Harry had ever seen her, that Ginny’s older brothers were fiercely protective of her. The look on Ron’s face whenever he had seen his younger sister so much as in the same room as Dean Thomas while the pair had been together was enough to make Harry wince. But would he make an exception for his best friend? Together, they’d saved one another’s skins on more than one occasion; surely a friend like that was a friend you could trust to look after your little sister and treat her well? Besides, Harry thought, it wasn't as if Ginny wasn’t far more capable of looking out for herself than annoys her brothers gave her credit for.

A glint of gold next to Ginny’s Gryffindor-red hair brought Harry back to the present with a sharp jolt. What was he doing, daydreaming about his best mate’s little sister instead of spotting the Snitch? That was NOT the wajto beat Ravenclaw. Harry looped once more before falling swiftly into a steep dive that brought him back to the team’s action and the Snitch.

The setting sun caught Ginny’s hair ablaze so that it lit her whole face as Harry gave the team some post-practice feedback and encouragement for the weekend. The whole team seemed more relaxed after some time in the air, Harry thought. He knew that their chances for Saturday weren’t fantastic - they’d have to beat Ravenclaw’s very strong lineup by a minimum of four hundred points in order to win the Cup. The team were aware of this too, however the mood as they strolled back up to the Castle together seemed to be lighter than it had been for the past few days. Harry suspected that Ginny’s cheeriness was infecting the whole team - even Ron seemed more relaxed and less keen to push himself between his sister and Harry than usual. In a fit of lightheaded hopefulness, Harry decided that if they won the Cup that Saturday, he’d have a serious chat with Ginny at the party that would be held afterwards in Gryffindor tower. If luck could win him the match, who knew what else might be possible?

 

Saturday morning dawned bright, sunlight streaming in through the windows of Gryffindor tower to rouse the Quidditch team from their fitful rest. All of them, plus Hermione, Dean, and a few others from the younger years, were in the Great Hall for breakfast before most of the castle were awake. Harry tuned out Hermione’s lecture on the importance eating before a match as he sucked his porridge and absentmindedly wondered why the Ravenclaw table was so empty - indeed, the only other people sat at the long trestle tables were some Hufflepuff first-years that seemed to be hopping up and down and squeaking about the match, and one Draco Malfoy, who appeared to be trying to disappear into the drapes behind him. Even in his fuzzy-headed early-morning state, some corner of Harry’s brain noted Malfoy’s apparent discomfort and his lack of cronies, and filed it away as ‘suspicious behaviour’.

By the time the rest of the school had awoken and made its way down to the Quidditch stands ready for the match, the sunlight that woke Harry had mostly been filtered out by fluffy white clouds carried in by a howling wind. However, Harry still made sure to remind the team that he had every confidence in them, and that many of them had flown in far worse conditions; he would never forget the Impervious charm Hermione had used on his glasses during one match in his Second year where he hadn’t been sure whether he should try to fly, or just give up and swift after the snitch.

Soon, the team were lined up behind Harry as he firmly shook the hand of McCraw, the seventh-year Ravenclaw Captain. then, on Madam Hooch’s whistle, they were off, zigzagging upwards against the ferocious winds amid cheers from the whole stadium. As he glanced around for the glint of the snitch, the same small corner of Harry’s brain that had been the first to awaken at breakfast-time noted a lack of distinctive pale blond glint anywhere in the Slytherin stands, and filed it under ‘suspicious behaviour’.

Harry flew low for most of the game, keeping track the snitch while staying out of the wind as much as possible. It seemed they were lucky: although Ravenclaw had a very strong lineup of beaters, and McCraw was renowned for his keeping abilities, it seemed that their Chasers were struggling to keep the Quaffle moving in any direction other than that in which the clouds appeared to be travelling at a rate of knots. Harry felt his chest swell with pride as he thought about how well all of his Chasers were doing. Even Zacharias Smith - McGonagall had recently announced that all Quidditch commentators must be from a house other than the two on the pitch - was remarking into his bright yellow megaphone how well they seemed to work together.

Eventually, or so it seemed to Harry as he looped the Ravenclaw hoops for what felt like the twenty-seventh time in an attempt to throw Cho Chang off his tail, Smith announced the score as Gryffindor: five hundred and thirty - Ravenclaw:one hundred and twenty. McGonagall had cast a large purple scoreboard on the grass of the pitch relatively early into the game, when it became clear that not all of the players would be able to hear the commentary over the wind. As soon as the score had changed to one that would allow Gryffindor to win should they catch the snitch, Harry’s mind had switched to focus on that, and that alone. All thoughts of red hair and dastardly plots vanished from his mind in a swish of gold-tinted wings.

 _The Snitch!_ Harry spotted a golden glint hovering on the far upwind corner of the pitch. He zigzagged sharply towards it, barely registering the bludger that just brushed him, or the sickening _crunch!_ that followed a moment later. Leaning so far forwards on his broom that his nose was almost flush with the shaft, he reached forwards and snatched the snitch by a fluttering wingtip, and, holding it aloft for Madam Hooch and the screaming crowds alike, turned to face the Stands..

..Just in time to see Ginny flung sideways off her broom by a bludger, into the Gryffindor goalposts, as the rest of the team dropped gracefully to the ground.

 

Harry was still very much in shock as he made his way back up to the castle, alone. Ron had gone straight to the Hospital Wing behind the stretcher Madam Hooch had put Ginny on, while Harry had dragged the rest of the team off to get changed. McGonagall had congratulated them, in rather sober tones, on a difficult match well played, before informing them that Ginny had suffered several broken bones and been knocked unconscious by the Quidditch hoop, but a strong Cushioning Charm by Professors Dumbledore and Flitwick had saved her from further injury when she hit the ground.Harry thought back to the year’s Quidditch season and began to wonder if Fate or someone had it in for the Gryffindor team.

He’d called in to the Hospital Wing as soon as he and the rest of the team had changed and put their brooms away; however Madam Pomfrey had tersely informed him that Ginny was sleeping, and didn't need any distractions now, thank you very much. Harry was almost sure he had glimpsed the edge of Dean’s grey- blue satchel around the corner, however.

So it was almost force of habit, a need for normality, that led to Harry pulling the Marauders’ Map out of his pocket to check for Malfoy as his feet made their way up to the Seventh Floor corridor of their own accord.

As he paced back and forth in front of the wall where the door to the Room of Requirement would appear, Harry scanned the Map. No door appeared as he made his third pass along the corridor; however, he did spot a tiny point labelled “Draco Malfoy” on the map. Malfoy’s dot appeared to be slightly blue - Harry had no idea why this was the case, but he dared hope that the Marauders had perhaps integrated some sort of anti-Dark Wizard feature into the map. That would certainly be useful, he thought ruefully.

Harry’s feet had carried him away from the Room of Requirement and down several sets of stairs before he’d thought too hard about where Malfoy actually was. He drew his eyes away from the small blue dot to glance at the wider context of the Map - only to realise that Malfoy was in nowhere other than Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom! Harry’s pace quickened as his mind raced through a hundred different ideas for what Dark things a trainee Death Eater might be doing at the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Harry hadn’t exactly explored all that the slimy, oppressing space had to offer on the only occasion he’d visited. Maybe Malfoy had learned Parseltongue….

As he approached the door to Myrtle’s bathroom, Harry tightened his fingers around his wand, inside his pocket. A sudden rush of adrenaline filled him, and he remembered the spell from the Prince’s book that he’d been wanting to test for a while now: _Sectumsempra- for enemies_ , the book had said. Harry braced himself, pushed the door, and strode into the bathroom.

And froze. He’d been expecting a bubbling cauldron, or a dangerous magical artefact of some kind, or even a book of terrible curses. But not the skinny figure of Draco Malfoy, leaning all of his weight against a sink, his skin tinged a sort of pale grey, with - Harry leaned closer, horrified - tears, streaming down his face like a rainstorm. There were dark shadows the size of eggs under his eyes, and his hair was sticking up in al directions.

Harry stood, rooted to the spot, for what seemed like a lifetime. Before he had had the chance to recover his senses, however, Moaning Myrtle appeared from her cubicle. She spotted Harry and gasped. Draco lifted his eyes to the mirror in from of him and moved to turn on the spot, reaching for his wand as he did so. As he spun, his foot slipped on the perpetually flooded tile, and his whole body jerked forwards towards the floor.

Harry’s Seeker reflexes kicked in. When his brain caught up with his body a few seconds later, he found himself stood in a puddle of water that was almost over his shoes, holding up Malfoy’s entire weight. The git was leant so that Harry could only see his unusually unkempt white-blonde hair, and as he shifted his feet into a more sensible position for supporting Malfoy’s admittedly underweight frame, the blonde head shifted to rest on his shoulder.  
_At least that’s one person you’ve stopped from falling today_ , some hidden part of Harry’s brain supplied.

They stood, in their awkward half-embrace, for quite some time. Malfoy’s only response to the situation was to sob erratically onto Harry’s shoulder, so Harry kind of slid his arms a bit further around Malfoy’s ribcage to that he could pat his back awkwardly. Should he say something? What do you say to your enemy of six years, whom you believe is working for the maniac that killed your parents, as they heave great, chest-wracking sobs onto your shoulder?

Sometime after Harry’s shoes had completely given up repelling Myrtle’s flood, he registered that Malfoy was clinging to fistfuls of his robes as if they were a lifeline that would rescue him from being lost at sea.  
Sometime after that, Malfoy let go and leant back. Harry loosed his hold, unsure whether or not to drop his arms now that his charge was standing independently. Draco lifted his head, met Harry’s gaze, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that the final match of the season is supposed to occur after the Sectumsempra incident, but it seemed to fit better this way.


	2. Peas

Heavy rain was lashing at the windows of Gryffindor tower when Harry awoke the next morning. He fumbled for his glasses, noting that although Ron’s bed was empty, the orange bedcovers were in their usual jumbled morning state. Harry briefly wondered why he had noticed such a thing - other than that it was unusual for Ron to have gone to breakfast without him.

Then it hit him like the Hogwarts Express. Or like Ginny had hit the Quidditch hoop yesterday, his mind supplied, as he remembered the events of the match in all of their gory detail. Ron was probably in the Hospital Wing, like the good, caring big brother he was. Dean was conspicuously absent from the dormitory too; Seamus’ curtains were still drawn, and Harry thought he could detect snoring. A pang of something not a million miles from jealousy flashed through Harry’s mind.

As his brain rehashed the events of Saturday afternoon, Harry began to feel more and more like the whole situation was some kind of bizarre dream. Were Gryffindor really the Quidditch Champions? Was Ginny really lying in pieces in the Hospital Wing after an accident slightly reminiscent of a Muggle comic book? Logically, Harry knew that the answer to these questions must be yes. But that didn't explain the other event he wasn’t sure he believed. Draco Malfoy, sobbing uncontrollably onto his shoulder, and then leaving without a word. In the girls’ bathroom where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets lay. Draco Malfoy, looking so ragged and rough and utterly _alien_ compared to his snarky, polished everyday appearance that Harry could almost believe the two were different people.

In fact, the only part of that entire afternoon that seemed to make sense to Harry’s sleep- and Quidditch- addled brain was going looking for Malfoy after the match. The git _had_ been acting suspiciously, after all - he’d already been at breakfast when the Gryffindor team had come down practically as the sun was rising, and he’d skipped the final Quidditch match of the entire year. Going to look for him had clearly been a smart move by Harry.

Perhaps the whole sobbing episode had been a cover-up? There clearly hadn’t been a Death Eater attack on the castle, or Harry probably wouldn't have a bed to lay in any longer, and the lack of panicked students running around like headless chickens was a good indicator that no-one had been killed. But maybe Malfoy had done something that wouldn’t set its destructive action off until later. A slow-acting but deadly poison in the water system, perhaps - he had been in a bathroom, after all. Or was it to do with the Chamber of Secrets? Was he hiding a monster down there, biding his time before unleashing it on the school to do the his Master’s bidding? Harry’s pace quickened at the thought of another basilisk on the loose; Voldemort was a Parselmouth, after all, and it was a method he’d had time to refine.

_Malfoy was probably already crying when you entered the bathroom_ , some deep dark corner of Harry’s mind chimed in. The rest of his brain leaped up to point out that basilisks were pretty terrifying creatures that were probably more than capable of making most people cry. Somehow, though, the thought didn't quite sit comfortably inside his head.

 

A loud gurgling sound from his stomach reminded Harry rather abruptly that he’d best head down to breakfast sooner rather than later. He supposed eh ought to go and see Ginny in the Hospital Wing, too. So much for talking to her at the victory after-party. Harry had returned to the Tower, baffled and with trainers squelching, to discover all but a few Gryffindors had gone to bed; apparently the butterbeer and streamers had been stashed back in their usual hiding places and the party postponed until the whole team could attend.

Harry scanned the Slytherin table as he spread ketchup on his eggs and half-listened to Hermione lecturing him on the history and properties of the special kind of Skele-Gro Madam Pomfrey had had to use on Ginny. She shot him a sharp glare when she realised that the source of his distraction appeared to be Malfoy’s empty seat, but didn’t comment. Harry made an effort to nod along, but found he simply didn't care as much as he thought he ought to. His mind was whirring with possibilities as to what Malfoy might be up to.

 

Arms stretched high up above his head, Harry tipped his chair back and yawned. Madam Pince shot him a glare. Impulsively, he winked back, and then looked away. Merlin, but this Transfiguration essay was boring. Hermione had flat-out refused to help him, claiming she had a mountain of Arithmancy to contend with - and to be fair, Harry thought, as he glanced at his friend over the towering pole of books on the library table, she did appear to be scribbling even more frantically than usual. He just couldn't seem to focus on one thing for more than about thirty seconds; his mind kept drifting back to bathrooms and basilisks…

Hermione glanced up as he made to leave the library. “I’m going for a bit of a walk” Harry said, by way of explanation. “I promise I’ll finish that essay when I get back, but there’s no way I’ll get it done like this. If Ron bugs you about it when Molly releases him, he can look at what I’ve done already.” His friend bit her lip and nodded once in response.

Harry let his feet carry him forwards, focusing more on the thoughts swirling around his head than on the direction he was travelling in. His brain was churning over possible plots Malfoy might have been trying to cover up. None of them seemed quite right, however; one small part of his brain just would not stop reminding him that Malfoy had already been standing over the sink when he opened the door. He thought back to the way Malfoy had cried, great sobs that shook his whole body like a ship in a hurricane. They weren't remotely similar to the controlled wails Dudley had produced whenever he hadn’t got his way.

 

It wasn't until he was almost at the door to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom that Harry realised where his feet had carried him to, so ensconced was he in his thoughts. Shrugging, he twisted the doorhandle, remembering too late that this was actually a girls’ bathroom, and that this possibly wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had.

“H-Harry Potter!” Myrtle almost forgot to sob as she zoomed out of her toilet in surprise at Harry’s crossing the threshold. Harry silently thanked Myrtle’s crying and toilet-flooding habits for the absence of girls using the bathroom. “No-one _ever_ comes to visit me any more! I thought you all hated me!”.

“No, no, of course, not - it’s just, erm…” Harry flushed awkwardly. He’d never actually visited this particular bathroom for the sole purpose of Myrtle’s company.

Then a thought struck him: “Hey, didn’t you have a visitor yesterday? Other than me, I mean.”

Moaning Myrtle huffed indignantly. “Well, yes, but he just cries every time he visits, and he never talks much, or lets me help him. And he’s not-“ she broke off, flushing bright silver. Harry sighed inwardly, and made a mental note to ask Hermione how someone with no blood managed to blush so fiercely.

“Does he visit you often?” If Malfoy was up to something in the Chamber, Myrtle might be a useful source of information, especially if she knew that it had to do with Tom Riddle.

“Oh, nearly every day now. He just sobs and says that he can’t do it, and that they’re all going to die, and it will all be his fault. Sometimes he says that he’ll dies too.” Myrtle sniffed haughtily “he won’t tell me what he can’t do, or who’s going to die. I tried telling him that being dead isn't all that bad, but i don't think he believed me.” She uttered a small sob “It was a rubbish lie, anyway. You just get stuck haunting bathrooms, forever alone and with no real friends. And any that you do make insist on staying alive.” The sobs intensified.

Harry swallowed another sigh - Myrtle’s penchant for the dramatic could be rather off-putting at times like this. He stood still for a moment, his rain whirring over everything Myrtle had just said. Was Malfoy’s life really at risk? Harry supposed any Dark Lord intent on wiping an entire population of Muggles and Muggle-borns probably wasn't above killing his own loyal following when they displeased him. But Myrtle’s recollection had made it sound almost as if Malfoy didn’t _want_ to serve Voldemort. And did the stone-cold git really have a conscience? _Would you, if you were being asked to set a basilisk on an entire school, or commit cold-blooded murder?_ the voice inside his head asked, its tone slightly snide.

A splashing sound brought Harry’s thoughts back down to earth. He glanced up, and squashed the irritation he felt at the hope that lit up Myrtle’s silvery face as he made eye contact with her. “I - I think you are helping Malfoy” he began lamely, trying to thank her for the information without implying that he’d be back any time soon, “just by being here for him. You probably shouldn't tell anyone he’s been here, though.”

“But he needs better help”. The genuine concern on the ghost’s features surprised Harry. “He’s up against that nasty Riddle boy just like I was, I know he is, even if he won’t tell me. I’d know his vile symbols anywhere.”

Harry tried not to let the surprise show on his face. “But you telling people that isn’t going to help him =“ he began gently. If the news that Malfoy was being threatened - or worse, had been marked - by Voldemort - got out, Lucius would almost certainly pull his precious apprentice out of Hogwarts in the blink of an eye, and Harry would lose his only lead on Death Eater activity. 

“Hmph.” Myrtle followed the huff with a rather put out-sounding sob. “I’m only telling you because..” she coughed, and cried a bit more. “Anyway, no-one ever comes to see me anyway, so who would I tell, even if I wanted to? And when they do come, all they do is mock me. Moaning Myrtle. Stupid, Crazy Myrtle, with her stupid, ugly glasses. Just like Olive Hornby used to, making me cry.” She broke down, her tears forming a rather large puddle on the tiles.

Harry coughed awkwardly, averting his eves. “Well, thanks Myrtle. It was,er…lovely to see you. Bye!” He ducked out of the door before she could respond. There was only so much crying ghost he could handle in one go. 

 

“Alright, Harry?” Neville asked, as Harry stared intently at the snake on the Slytherin crest opposite the Gryffindor table while he ate his peas.

“What? Oh, yes, thanks Neville,” Harry stuttered. “Been feeling a little bit off colour, probably just tired though”.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like any chicken to go with those peas, Harry?” Hermione offered. “Protein will help you to rebuild your strength and recover more quickly from fatigue”.

Harry looked down and realised that the green vegetable he’d been putting in his mouth was the only thing he’d managed to serve himself. “Oh, thanks Hermione, great idea” he said quickly, taking the dishes of roast chicken and potatoes she passed him. “The peas are really good, by the way.”

Ron shook his head at his best mate, sighing. “Too busy gazing at Malfoy to eat anything that’s not Slytherin green, eh” he muttered, half-kindly.

Harry flushed. He hadn’t been looking at Malfoy, although his eyes had flicked across the Slytherin table to confirm that the blonde was there - and he was eating alone, hunched over his plate. For once, though, Harry’s mind had been so busy going over everything Myrtle had said about Malfoy that he hadn't been staring at the git trying to spot suspicious activity. An small jab in the side from Hermione reminded him that he was surrounded by his friends. “How’s Ginny doing?” he asked, and then felt a pang of guilt because he’d barely thought of her all day.

Ron grinned, his freckled face lighting up. “She’s doing grand. She drank even more Skele-Gro than you did when Lockhart turned your arm all wobbly in Second Year, Harry, and she’s pretty much all fixed now. Got some absolutely cracking bruises that even Pomfrey can’t fix fully though, and McGonagall’s making her take tomorrow off classes.”

“Brilliant!” Harry was relieved to hear she was okay. She’d hit the goalpost with an almighty _whack!_ and he still felt a little guilty for not being there to protect her. “We’re lucky that was the last match of the season - she’s such a key part of the team. And I’m sure she’s not too happy to be off flying for a bit as it is, but I don’t reckon any of us could handle her if she had to miss a match because of an injury”.

Neville and Ron both chuckled at that. “Too right mate, she’d be biting all of our heads off at the slightest opportunity!”.

“I’m sure she’ll be pleased to have a visit from you after dinner, Harry,” Hermione added, with a knowing smile. Dean Thomas shot her a small glare from along the table.

Harry left the Hospital Wing feeling more than a little dejected. Ginny had seemed bright and bubbly, and he was pleased to see she was getting better, but Dean had been lurking there the whole time, and she’s clearly enjoyed his presence. He began to wonder if it was actually a good thing he hadn’t had a chance to have _that_ conversation with her yet. Being rejected would just be even more humiliating than necessary.

Out of habit, Harry pulled the Marauders’ Map from the pocket of his robes, and muttered under his breath to reveal it. As the ink spread out from the centre, he scanned the parchment for Malfoy. To his surprise, the dot labelled “Draco Malfoy” - still that puzzling shade of blue - was visible just down the next corridor. Harry quickened his pace: although he was beginning to doubt that Malfoy was really as evil as he seemed, Myrtle had made it obvious that he was supposed to be planning something. 

Malfoy wasn't visible from the corridor in which his dot appeared on the map. For one horrible moment, Harry thought he must have found out about it and figured out a way to trick it to cover his tracks. But then he spotted the alcove, almost completely hidden behind a tapestry of two very smug-looking wizards leaning against a rainbow (some corner of Harry’s brain absentmindedly suggested that they might be cousins of the Wizard of Oz, although they didn’t look remotely alike). Harry inched closer to the tapestry, trying to hear whatever Draco might be up to. The two wizards eyed him curiously, but stayed quiet.

But - wait - Harry heard shaky, laboured breathing, and what sounded like a muffled swallow. What on earth was Malfoy doing in there? Another muffled gulp, and it hit him: the git was crying. Again. Harry froze. What do you do when you find your arch nemesis crying alone in a secluded alcove? Harry was fairly certain that barging in Gryffindor-style would just frighten Malfoy, and then he wouldn't get to find out what his plans were. And besides. The git clearly needed help of some kind. The thought of sobbing all alone in the small, dark space behind a tapestry cut a bit too close to home for Harry to be particularly comfortable. He took a step back and held his eyes wide open, trying to hold back memories of some nights at Privet Drive.

Abruptly, Harry decided it was probably time for him to head back to Gryffindor Tower and get some rest. As he made to step away, one of the wizards in the tapestry beckoned him over. He leant in, curious,to be told in a jovial whisper “don’t worry, lad, he’ll make it out of there in his own good time”. Harry nodded, confused, and made his way down the corridor before he could think too hard and make his brain explode.

 

Harry awoke from the nightmare, sweaty and panting hard. His scar didn’t hurt, and he dimly registered that this was just an ordinary nightmare - not one from Voldemort - but the back of his head was still thudding low with a headache. He shook himself awake. Looking at it logically, he knew Malfoy couldn't really have drowned in a lake of his own salty tears, while faceless snake figures loomed menacingly and hissed nonsense in Parseltongue. But he still reached into his trunk for the Map to check that the git was safely in his dorm. He was, and the dot was black this time. Weird.

What to do next, then? He got up and walked to the bathroom, mostly for something to do. Harry stood and stared in the mirror for long moments. Should he tell Ron and Hermione? They’d probably put it down to the ‘Draco obsession’ they insisted he’d had all year, and announce that it was Harry who needed help, not Malfoy. How about Dumbledore? But Harry only talked to the old man about deadly serious matters, like Horcruxes and Prophecies. An arch-nemesis who was a bit unhappy seemed rather a silly thing to bother such a busy man with. Should Harry talk to Malfoy himself? The idea itself did’t exactly fill him with joy, and the git would probably decide Harry was out to get him and try and hex him first. Joyous.

After much pondering, and several drinks of water from the sink, Harry came up with a plan. He dug about in his trunk, shifting through more socks than he ever remembered owning - they must have been breeding, he thought absentmindedly - to find his spare DA coin. With a bit of fiddling, and a look at the instructions Hermione had scribbled him when he had helped her to make them last year, he managed to cast the charm so that messages would go only to his coin, and he could reply to it alone by tapping the edge three times with his wand.

That was the easy bit, Harry thought cynically, as he dropped the coin into an envelope he’d made out of a spare bit of parchment. _Now for the bit I fuck up._ After much scratching and scribbling, and spilling of ink, he settled on:

_Malfoy,_  
I have seen you twice now, and you have seen me at least one of those times.   
Talk to someone. It will help, trust me. You can ask me via the enclosed coin, and I’ll tell you how I know. 

Harry shoved the note he’d written into the envelope and sealed it before he could change his mind. He tapped it twice with his wand and muttered something, and it whizzed off to a location where Malfoy might find it. The makeshift envelope did have a charm on it that wouldn't let anyone else open it (but Harry was still hopeful that no other blondes found it first).


	3. Spare Change

To anyone walking down the corridor, it would appear perfectly ordinary - at least as far as a Hogwarts corridor, with its talking portraits and moving suits of armour, could. An observer would see a few paintings, and probably no passers-by, as this part of the castle did not lead to anywhere most students would have any particular wish to visit of an evening.

Draco Malfoy, however, was not Most Students. And _wish_ was possibly the wrong adjective for his particular reason to visit this area of the castle at this particular time of day. Perhaps ‘need’ would suit it better. After Potter had discovered the bathroom, he had been forced to seek out somewhere else. Draco was so drained this evening that his face couldn't even summon the energy to burn at the memory.

 _Three. More. Steps._ For the thousandth time, Draco berated his own magical shortcomings: if he could only retain enough self-control to maintain a Silencing Charm, he could be in the relative comfort of his bed right now. _Your pathetic magical powers will cost you more than just your bed_. Draco mostly succeeded in swallowing the sob that rose in his throat.

But there was another reason Draco avoided his own dormitory at all costs. The previous summer, when his Father had brought him to Him, like a present to pacify a sulking toddler, He had looked into Draco with those haunting red ghost-eyes, sifting through the mundane and the precious like a collector in a second-hand bookshop, giving everything a good once-over, but only pulling out the interesting or eye-catching bits. Draco had stood there, chin held high like Father always said proper Malfoys did, and focused all of his being on not thinking anything, or trembling. He had sifted through so many things, occasionally pausing to comment - but it was his comments on Hogwarts that had tested Draco the most. He would never sleep well again for knowing that his dormitory was the same one as Tom Riddle himself had called home for seven years.

Having finally made it across the looming canyon that was the last three steps of corridor, Draco slipped behind the tapestry of the cheery wizards and collapsed onto the narrow stone ledge inside with a sigh. His knees came up to his chest almost automatically, as the twin feelings of relief and despair surged through him, displacing the tears that had been building up behind his eyes so that they flowed down his face. He rested his nose between his kneecaps and let it go. Some part of his brain thought despairingly of what his mother would think, while the rest snapped that if he didn’t pull himself together, she wouldn't be about to worry much longer.

Draco stayed that way until he was far beyond the point of having any sense of time. For all he knew, he could have been there half an hour or half a year. Eventually, though, his tear ducts ran dry and he succeeded in gulping down enough of the slightly musty air to ease the burning in his chest a little. Draco straightened his spine as best he could and pinched the skin of his upper arm between his fingernails, relishing the way that the sharp little pain made him feel that bit more alive. He shifted his size-ten feet a little and felt one of them slide a little. Funny, he didn’t remember the stone here being slippy.

 

He groped around his ankles, trying to feel the stone. Draco considered groping somewhere else as well, but the thought of the energy it would require made him want to cry all over again. His fingers grasped on something tucked under his left foot, something he hadn’t noticed earlier in his desire to curl up and hide from the world. It felt like parchment,folded at the edges. He pulled it up towards his face and cast a feeble _lumos_ to get a better look.

 

Draco sat, dumbfounded by the contents of the poor-quality envelope. Somebody maybe _cared_. the thought alone was overwhelming. Nobody cares about Draco Malfoy. His peers feared and respected him, certainly. His parents saw his as an item to show off, a prize to be offered, a piece to be perfected. But not a thing to care about. Tears leaked at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill.

Unless.. unless it was all some form of cruel joke, or a trap of some kind. No-one really gave a damn about him, other than as a tool, did they? Not like everyone cared about Perfect Potter, for instance. The tears welling behind his eyelids broke forth, falling faster than Potter could zoom away from Draco on his Firebolt, forever grasping away the Snitch and Draco’s happiness, leaving him as bait for the Dementors and the Dark Lord….

He was sure he wept for twice as long this time, although he had no idea of the time.

 

Back in his - and His, he thought miserably, dormitory, his face and feelings hidden behind a layer of well-cast glamours, Draco began to see the note in a more positive light once again. Why would someone wanting to make a joke of him go to all the trouble of a reasonably complex Protean charm to do so? Why not just fill the envelope with Insoluble Slime, or some other vile Weasley product? Someone might actually care.

 _And if it is a trap_ , his most cynical side suggested, _it’ll be by some of those ridiculous Light wizards, and it’ll get you out of working for Him_. Although he thought some of their principles ridiculous, the Dark Lord wasn’t exactly the warrior of justice Draco had envisioned in his younger years, either. Cowardly as it may be, being captured by Dumbledore and company would at least keep Draco safe from both sides, he thought selfishly.

Spurred on by the sudden burst of positive attitude, Draco decided to send his stalker - whoever they were - a response via their coin. he figured that it had now reached a significantly early hour of the morning that they wouldn't respond immediately, and would therefore allow him some more time to think as well. Although he usually wrote his letters slowly, considering the connotations of all that he said and making sure to incorporate just enough of the persuasive techniques he’d learned to maximise the chances of his desired outcome occurring, Draco forced himself to make haste on this occasion. Without too much thought, he waved his wand so that the letters spelled out:  
_Won’t trust you; will talk._ He didn't sign his name.

* * * * *

Harry sat in potions, trying not to sulk. He darted his eyes sideways at Malfoy every minute or so, but even watching for signs of the git’s evil plans had lost some of its appeal. There was no real need to listen to Slmghorn rambling about the magical properties of blinderstem either - although it provided a welcome distraction from Ron’s look of glee, Harry supposed grudgingly. Or Dean Thomas’s chuffed smirk. He huffed out a breath, frustrated.

It was the timing of the whole situation that really wound him up, Harry decided, as he absentmindedly doodled Golden Snitches in the margins of his parchment. Just twenty minutes ago, when McGonagall had kept him back after Transfiguration to tell him that the Gryffindor Quidditch team could use one of the large classrooms on the Third floor, near to the tower entrance, to celebrate their victory and Ginny’s speedy recovery the Saturday after next, he’d been happy as Larry. Larry probably didn't get rejected by the star player on his own Quidditch team before he’d even managed to ask her out to the victory celebrations though, he thought bitterly. And said girl almost certainly wasn't his best mate’s little sister either, so he didn't have to put up with Ron moaning about how Dean was ‘too old for her’. Larry clearly had it easy.

 

Later, Harry lay on his bed in Gryffindor Tower, sulking. He had the room to himself. Dean was off somewhere (he didn’t like to let his mind focus too hard on where exactly), Ron was playing Neville at Wizard’s Chess in the Common Room, and Seamus was cheering them on. He was glad to be alone; the thought of Dean’s cheeriness and Ron’s constant desire to discuss the upcoming party made him want to curl into a ball beneath his bedsheets and never leave. _This is probably how Malfoy feels when he’s hiding in odd places around the castle_ , an annoying corner of Harry’s brain suggested. Harry did his best to block it out by burrowing deeper amongst the blankets.

But, of course, the evil M-word set his tired brain churning. Lying in his miserable duvet cocoon, Harry remembered the coin. Ugh. It was in his bedside cabinet. So. Far. Away. The git had probably just chucked the thing straight in the trash anyway, he thought bitterly to himself, as he failed miserably to summon the energy to move six inches across the bed.

What if the blonde idiot had replied, though? This opportunity to uncover Malfoy’s potentially dastardly plans couldn’t be allowed to slip away thanks to mere laziness! The whole of Hogwarts could be in danger!  
_And besides,_ that irritating little voice in his mind began as Harry set out on a slow sideways shuffle to the bedside cabinet, _you offered to talk to the git. The sod’ll feel even worse if you ignore him after that._ He shook his head vigorously to get rid of any more thoughts like that. Harry was doing this for the information it could provide, not because he _cared_. Ugh. 

Harry scrabbled around the jumble of small items in his bedside drawer for a few seconds before his fingers closed on the coin. He dragged it, his wand, and a couple of chocolate frogs into his blanket-land. Despite not having a particularly sweet tooth, especially after years of no sweets living with the Dursleys, today felt like the kind of day where he needed the moral support that accompanied chocolate-eating.

The message on the coin was a relatively pleasant surprise. Harry sent back a response before he could think too much about it:  
_Fair’s fair. Go ahead?_

A greater surprise, however, was the coin staying hot after his own message left:  
_All shit. Where to start?_

Without thinking, he responded:  
_I know right. Rejected today_

The response:  
_ouch. by who?_

 _My best mate’s sis_. He wiped the coin with a tap of his wand, before continuing, _she got back with her ex_.

 _That’s unfortunate_  
Immediately followed by:  
_Girls can be such bitches_

Harry paused, setting his half-eaten chocolate frog down for a moment. Was he really going to Malfoy for sympathy about his love life? Nonetheless, he continued:

 _That one in particular is,yeah_. He realised he didn’t feel a shred of remorse for moaning about Ginny. After all, he had a Dark Lord to bring down. Girls could wait.  
_Sixth year is just a bitch overall_ he continued, remembering the original objective of the conversation.

 _I tend to agree. It’s been far less enjoyable than my previous years here._ Harry refused to be impressed by the way Malfoy had charmed the letters to slide around the coin to accommodate the longer message.

 _how so?_ He opted to keep his response short, and resolved to ask Hermione how to do the letter-looping charm Malfoy had used later.

 _More pressure._ Malfoy responded, _Due to NEWTS, and my friends, and the family business_.

 _Are you going into it?_ Harry hoped that might be a covert way of referring to the Voldemort. If not, then it was probably some dull investment banking strategy to pay for the next Malfoy Chateau or something.

_Only as a last resort. Father wishes me to, but the initiation process is not to my taste._

Harry’s mouth dropped open. Malfoy didn’t want to join Voldemort, and was looking for a way out! Well, that was certainly something worth crying about, especially since Malfoy’s parents had always seemed to stand up for him regarding any issues he might have at school.

 _How so?_ Curiosity bubbled in his chest.

Malfoy didn’t respond for what felt like a very long moment. 

Then, the sudden heat of the coin surprising Harry:  
_I have a task to complete. I have attempted, but I no longer wish to succeed._

“Yes!” Harry breathed to himself, his mood lifting. He _knew_ Malfoy was up to something! 

_I have been told the event might occur without me doing it_ Malfoy continued, _That won’t help though._

_What would help?_ Harry felt compelled to ask.

 _Slughorn to stop treating me like a misbehaving first-year, for starters_ . Malfoy sounded irritated, even via the coin.

 _Oh dear,_ Harry sensed he’d maybe got all of the information he was going to get that evening _At least he’s not house head_.

They spoke back and forth about Hogwarts life for a little while longer. Harry was surprised by how easy it was, and how un-gittish Malfoy was when he didn’t have to look at his pointy ferret face. He seemed almost keen to have someone to talk to, and Harry couldn’t help wonder at that; the prick was always flanked by Slytherins around the castle. Maybe they valued power more than companionship. Yes, that would be quite a Slytherin thing to do.

 

The next couple of weeks seemed to go past in a flash for Harry. He felt he was living in a no-man’s-land between exam rooms, the library and his bed. Sixth-year timetable was suspended for the exams, so he barely saw Malfoy , except from at the occasional mealtime. They hadn’t had any more chats using the coin, and part of Harry was sorry: the git had been almost pleasant. He consoled himself with the thought that Malfoy had probably been up to his eyeballs on some false happiness potion to stem the tears the last time they’d conversed.

In the haze of last-minute revision and May sunshine, Harry had almost forgotten about the looming Quidditch party. Hermione had managed to make time to organise them enough decorations for a medium-sized muggle music festival, as well as a minor feast and an ocean of butterbeer (she had blatantly refused to lat the house-elves lift a finger, insisting that “they don’t play Quidditch, so why should they have to organise the party?”). Unbeknownst to her or McGonagall, Seamus had also obtained a covert bottle or two of Ogden’s Best, to be opened only after the first-, second-, and third-years were sent to bed. Harry couldn’t make up his mind whether e was excited or not; on the one hand, the fact that they had won the Quidditch cup and were being allowed to celebrate made him want to hop up and down like a first-year; on the other,he’d have to watch Ginny and Dean be together all night, and miss out on what could have been his first available evening in a fortnight for Malfoy-watching. He still hadn’t figured out what it was the git thought might be going to happen, but the fact that it was probably assigned to him by Voldemort made Harry highly suspicious.

Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. Harry and Ron lay on the grass by the Lake and talked about nothing and found shapes in the clouds. They’d tried helping with setting up for the party, but had reached the conclusion fairly quickly that there wasn’t anything that hadn’t already been done. 

“I think that one looks like a Rook” Ron wondered aloud. 

“Ehhh… I think it’s a Knight, see, it’s got ears” Harry gestured lazily at the clouds above them.

“Harry Potter?” a squeaky voice interrupted their musings. Harry peered up at its owner through half-shut eyes. It looked to be a first-year, although he couldn’t tell which house without opening his eyes fully.

“Yeah?” he mumbled.

“Sorry to bother you, but Professor Dumbledore wants to seen you.” The squeaky voice sounded anxious, now. “Professor McGonagall said it was terribly important.”

Harry highly doubted that Professor McGonagall had ever uttered the phrase ‘terribly important’ in her entire life; however, he understood the sentiment. “Oh, er, thanks” he managed, scrambling to his feet.

Ron glanced up at him, shifting so that his bunched-up sweater made a more comfortable pillow. “Guessing I’m not invited to this super-secret meeting, mate?” Harry shook his head. “Ah well. Best of luck, Harry. Make sure you’re back for the party!”.

Harry smiled his goodbyes and hurried off in the direction of the Headmaster’s office. He couldn’t help feeling a little apprehensive: he knew that Dumbledore was likely to want to take him to find the next Horcrux, and his last encounter with such items hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs. Who knew what delights lay in store today, courtesy of Tom Riddle?

He paused outside the large oak door to Dumbledore’s office, at the sound of voices.

“Albus, this is not a wise idea. I still have no real leads on what the poison will be, if there even is such a poison. It may be one never studied.”

Harry slid closer to the door, his ears straining.

“Severus, you are one of the best potion masers alive. I trust you to have the antidote ready.”

“Such a thing cannot be relied upon! Headmaster, this plan is utterly foolish.”

Footsteps sounded towards the door, and Harry slipped forward and knocked, before Snape had the chance to accuse him of listening in. The door creaked open, and Harry’s Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher swished out, robed billowing. 

“Farewell, Severus.” Dumbledore’s cheery tones could be heard from just inside the office.

Snape turned on his heel and spoke in a low voice, his tone unlike any Harry had heard him use before “Goodbye, Headmaster.”.

“Ah, Harry, my boy” Dumbledore beckoned him across the threshold with his good hand, “it is time we were off. I shall explain my plans on the way. You’re happy flying, I trust?”.

* * * * *

Draco Malfoy sat, perched close to the edge of the astronomy tower, looking at the stars. He’d started coming here after crying recently - the weather had been relatively good, and looking up at the millions of tiny points of light twinkling above him made his feel more centred, somehow. He still had no idea how to fix his little Dark Lord issue, but such things seemed less important in comparison the the vastness of the Universe. He let his toes dangle over the edge, and wondered what it would feel like to fall from the Tower, air rushing past him and stars above. Like flying, but more freeing somehow.

He pulled his expensive wool cloak a little tighter around his shoulders and flexed his toes. It was nearly 1AM - well after curfew - but that didn’t really matter. He’d come prepared to sleep up here anyway. The cold night air was vastly preferable to the suffocating feeling of Tom Riddle’s ever-present legacy.

Something disrupted his perfect silence. Draco froze, stiff at the thought of being interrupted. Suddenly, the trapdoor creaked open, catching him by surprise.

 

* * * * *

Dumbledore’s condition had begun to deteriorate fairly rapidly after they’d set off back to Hogwarts. He’d started to shake violently, and before Harry had judged them to be halfway through the old man was ahem-faced and flying at an odd angle. Harry was growing increasingly worried, but Dumbledore swore blind that Snape had the antidote to the potion, and a host of other medical supplies, waiting for them at the top of the Astronomy Tower where they could land.

By the time the outline of Hogwarts was visible in the starlight (with the aid of a very useful charm Hermione had once put on his glasses, at any rate), Harry was holding Dumbledore up with one arm and flying both brooms with the other. The setup was wobbly at best, and he was torn between flying back to Hogwarts as fast as possible, and minimising the risk of dropping the barely-breathing Dumbledore. Harry had never been so glad to see the Forbidden Forest in his life. The outline of the Tower loomed, a spark of something light-coloured visible on its outline, as Harry struggled to maintain the necessary height while flying for two.

The speck of gold slipped downwards from the Tower outline as Harry approached it. His Seeker’s reflexes snapped into play and he dived after it, his mind going into overdrive as a far corner of his thoughts suggested that it might be Malfoy. He leaned forward on the borrowed broom, gaining on the object (which was now obviously human) with every second. His right arm reached out to grab it and pull the - definitely Malfoy - object onto his broom, his Quidditch brain automatically steering them into a safe flying position and landing them on top of the Tower, before he realised.

He’d dropped Dumbledore.

This time, it was both boys that clung to the other and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know! Next update ~should~ be soon..


	4. Amsterdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after a song, because it came on while I was writing, and it sorta seemed to fit

“…His memory, and that of his actions, will live on in Wizarding consciousness for centuries, eternities, to come” Harry paid little mind to the squeaky tones of the funeral celebrant. The blatant hero-worship in the man’s obituary irritated him intensely. Sure, Albus Dumbledore was a hero. But he was also a person, and Harry felt that most of the several hundred wizards and witches that had flocked to Hogwarts on the last day of term seemed to have forgotten that.

Harry squeezed his eyes tight shut, focussing on the eerie tones emanating from the throats of Professor Flitwick’s chamber choir, as Fawkes flew low to the ground along the aisle between the rows of seating, Dumbledore’s casket held in his claws. Hermione, sat on his left, squeezed his hand.

 _Don’t feel_ a voice inside Harry’s head reminded him firmly. He could do this. He could get through the funeral of the wizard who’d changed his life, always been there for him, protected him and so many others. The wizard from whom he still had so much to learn…

Suddenly, the calm voice telling him _focus on the grass, Harry_ was overpowered by white-hot anger. _You will know these things in time, my dear boy”_. Well, there wasn't any more TIME, was there? Harry felt himself begin to shake with the barely-suppressed urge to _SCREAM_. His eyes bored holes in the grass of Hogwarts’ front lawn below him, and some part of his brain dimly noted that his knuckles had gone white from gripping the chair. Harry ground his teeth.

 

Finally, _finally_ , it was over. Harry had looked, but not really seen, as Fawkes and the casket had tactfully combusted behind a large and suspiciously marble-looking boulder, and the smarmy little celebrant had put held aloft two over-shiny marble urns and announced that the ashes were to be spread between “the two places dearest to Professor Dumbledore’s heart”. Harry couldn’t even manage to be ashamed of the fact that he’d snorted rather loudly at that. His feet had carried him away from the sobbing crowds and towards the edge of the Forest even as his brain continued to work overtime. He reached for a dead twig lodged in the nearest tree, snapping it over and over until only fragments remained, his nerves in equally small shreds.

Harry had absolutely no idea how long he’d been standing there when someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He leapt into panic: was he supposed to be somewhere? The Hogwarts Express was due to leave after lunch! Had he missed it? Did someone need him? Was the castle under attack?

“Harry!” he turned toward the owner of the voice, and was immediately reassured by the face of none other than Remus Lupin. The tightness in his chest lessened a little. “Sorry for surprising you like that. I’ve just come to talk to you about where you’ll be going for the holidays.”

A particular sinking sensation that Harry had named ‘Number Four, Privet Drive’ settled in his stomach. “Have I missed the train, then?”, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer already. A fresh layer of dread settled on to of the weight already in the pit of his stomach. Oh,Uncle Vernon would be even more angry than usual when he got to Kings Cross and found Harry wasn't there.

Lupin laughed. “Well, yes. But that’s hardly a problem, since Grimmauld Place has a functioning Floo.”

Harry stared at him. “E-excuse me, Professor, but what?”

“Really, Harry, I haven’t taught here in two years, Remus will do just fine. Since the caster of the blood magic protecting you at your Aunt and Uncle’s house is no longer, the extent of the protection is limited, so it’s safer for you to be somewhere under the Fidelius Charm. We don’t think the spells on Privet Drive would have provided any protection beyond your seventeenth birthday anyway,and this way we won’t have to attempt some sort of complex means of extracting you without attracting Ministry attention.” The way Lupin said the word _Ministry_ held almost as much contempt as the way Malfoy used the term _Potter_.

 

Harry sat on his bed in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, his legs swinging back and forth agitatedly. The bed was large and slightly squashy - just the way Harry liked it - even if it did have a rather garish pattern of purple roses all over the sheets. Harry couldn't bring himself to care. The room he’d shared with Ron last summer felt very empty now, and Lupin appeared to have moved into Sirius’s old room. Harry couldn’t really blame him - the two had clearly been lifelong friends. Come to think of it, Harry couldn’t actually remember which room Lupin had been staying in the last time he was here. 

He hopped off the bed and headed for the door, tapping a note on the upright piano as he passed. The piano was the main reason Harry had chosen this room: its presence was somehow comforting. He trailed down the stairs, one hand on the banister, in search of Lupin, and maybe a snack.

Remus was sitting on a grubby-looking dining chair, nose buried in a book, when Harry entered the kitchen. He smiled slightly and flicked his wand, causing a toaster which looked distinctly out-of-place to begin ticking. “Hello, Harry” he sounded tired “cheese on toast alright?”.

But Harry’s stomach was suddenly not remotely interested in food. His eyes were transfixed by the front page of a days-old issue of the _Prophet_ that lay on the makeshift kitchen table. _Mad Headmaster Kills Himself in Night Flight_ the headline screamed. _Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, believed to be mentally unstable, fell to his death on Saturday night in what is believed to be a ludicrous attempt at unaided flight from Hogwarts Astronomy Tower_. 

“What’s up, Harry?” Lupin seemed concerned, but most of Harry’s brain didn't even register the words. He pointed dumbly to the newspaper.

“I… Uh…” He looked over the front page again, this time spotting the half-page photograph of Dumbledore’s corpse, still as stone even in the Wizard photograph. “That’s a lie!” He burst out.

“Of course. The _Prophet_ was hardly a reliable source of information even when the Ministry wasn't controlled by Death Eaters.”

“That’s not what happened! I was there!” Harry all but yelled across the kitchen.

Lupin froze for a moment. Then, “Do take a seat, Harry.”

Harry numbly stumbled into the empty dining chair opposite Remus. He felt a sudden overwhelming urge to tell him what happened, as if saying it out loud would show how ridiculous everything really was, and then Lupin would laugh and tell him it wasn’t real.

“He… I… He did fall to his death by the Astronomy tower” Harry began. Remus flashed him an understanding look, his warm amber eyes lending courage. “But he… I… We were flying back from a Horcrux mission, and he’d drunk all this poisonous potion that he swore Snape had the antidote to, so he was practically unconscious by the time we were nearly back to school, and I had to hold him up while flying.” He paused to draw breath and make an attempt to calm the shaking in his hands. “We were literally feet from the tower when someone - Draco - Malfoy - fell, and I” - he gripped the edge of the table - “I didn’t think, I dived for him instead, and Dumbledore fell.” Harry laid his head in his hands, for the millionth time in under a week both amazed and horrified by his own stupidity. “I killed him.”

“No, Harry. Don’t let guilt that isn’t yours eat at you. You didn’t kill him.”

Harry was incredulous. Had Lupin just heard what he said? Did this man not know of his track record? “That’s the third innocent man I’ve as good as killed in the space of two years,” he managed.

Fingers prodded at his wrists. He looked up reluctantly. “No, Harry, it isn’t.” Lupin pushed a plate of cheese on toast towards him. “Now, eat this, and I’ll be back in just a moment.”

The liquid in the glass Lupin handed him burned Harry’s throat on the way down, but he downed it as per the instruction nonetheless. Remus let out a chuckle, probably at the expression on Harry’s face.

“You did the right thing, Harry.”

That made no sense at all in Harry’s mind. Dumbledore had _died_. The right thing didn’t end in innocent people falling to their deaths! “I…No…I failed” he managed.

“Could you have carried Dumbledore and Draco both?” Lupin’s expression was serious.

Harry cringed. He’d dropped the greatest wizard of the twentieth century in preference for _Draco Malfoy_. Although part of him was strangely glad the git was still alive. “I… No. But Malfoy might not even have fallen!” He attempted to justify.

“You’ve studied some Muggle science, Harry, you know what gravity is”. Lupin refilled both of their glasses with the golden liquid. “You still saved a life. And you saved the young, innocent life, rather than the one that was probably nearly over anyway. You say he was unconscious by the time you reached the castle, yes?”.

Harry nodded into his drink.  
“Then I hate to break it to you, Haz, but he was probably poisoned beyond recovery anyway. There’s very few things that could do that to a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore, and most of them don’t have antidotes.”

Harry nodded again, his eyes boring holes into his glass. Lupin took a sip. The amber liquid was exactly the same colour as his eyes.

“Still, my last three years at Hogwarts have all ended with me causing someone else’s death. If I hadn’t insisted Cedric and I take the Cup at the same time-“

“-Then Cedric alone would have been transported by the Portkey, and Voldemort still would have murdered him just for being there. You weren’t to know, Harry, and you did everything you could to save him. Far more than many Wizards would have the skill or the courage to do.”.

“But last year, at the Department of Mysteries-“ Harry was getting more and more agitated.

“Harry, fifteen-year-old wizards shouldn't have to deal with Dark Lords casting long-distance Legilimens on them.”

“I know! But I did, and I failed and-“

Remus Lupin suddenly seemed strangely calm. “Sirius died happier than he’d been since James and Lily died, Harry. I miss him terribly, but in a strange way, I’m glad he went down sane and fighting, rather than going completely stir-crazy locked up in this cupboard full of skeletons.

Suddenly unable to look at his old professor, Harry took a sip of his drink. It tasted like almonds. “I’m still sorry.”

“Me too, Harry, me too. If things had been different-“ Lupin cut himself off. 

Harry met his amber gaze. “I just wish I’d had the chance to know him longer. He’s the closest thing I ever had to a parent” he sighed.

Lupin appeared torn. He put his left hand to his collarbone, then removed it, then put it back again. Appearing to come to a decision with himself, he reached inside the collar of his well-worn shirt and removed a slim gold chain. He slipped it around and undid the clasp so that it pooled in his hand, and held it out so that Harry could see the metal pawprint threaded onto it.

“Sirius and I - well, we were - engaged, I suppose, is the word you’d use for it. We kept it secret during the War, since Voldemort’s first Ministry - much like this one - outlawed both relationships between those of creature blood and those without, and those between homosexuals. But we always planned to - I don’t know - get married or something once Voldemort was gone. And had things been different, Sirius was the one your parents’ will declared responsible for you.” he trailed off, eyes slightly distant.

“So you’re basically my Godfather too?” Harry tried not to let himself be too ecstatic.

“Yes, I suppose you could see it that way” Remus couldn't help but smile. “Although I’m sure Sirius would have made a far more reckless and exciting parent. He’d have made you chocolate milk at midnight and taken you places on his motorbike, and I’d have made you tidy up and taken you to primary school, probably.”

“I never knew Sirius liked chocolate milk!” Harry couldn’t help himself; he’d had chocolate milk once or twice at Mrs Figg’s, and after that, he’d always been jealous when Aunt Petunia bought it for Dudley.

“Oh, yes. Badass Sirius Black, with his long hair and his motorbike, was a total sucker for chocolate milk” Remus smiled fondly. “My mother sent me some at Hogwarts after a full moon once, back when I was only in first or second year, and I let Sirius try it. He was absolutely hooked, said it was better than anything wizards have ever invented. When we used to share a flat, Lily used to joke that Moony and Pads would starve to death because they couldn't be bothered to walk to the supermarket, but if there was ever a national shortage of Nesqueek, we’d be covered for at least five years.”

Harry grinned at that thought. “I thought dogs were allergic to chocolate?”

“Oh, yes” Remus laughed, “Lily used to whack Padfoot on the nose whenever she caught him lapping at it. Didn’t stop him, though. When he transformed, he was such a big dog that a little bit of chocolate didn’t really do him any harm” he took another sip. “Although once, Padfoot drank so much chocolate milk that he still had the tummy ache when he turned back into Sirius”.

“I bet my mum never let me have it, then?” Harry asked. The warmth from whatever the amber liquid there were drinking had spread to his chest, making the pain of thinking about his Godfather seem less.

“Oh, no” Remus shook his head emphatically, “Sirius tried more than once, but she was insistent that you weren’t to have it until you were big enough to at least hold your toothbrush to your mouth yourself.” Harry laughed at that. “Actually, you used to insist the toothbrush was a broomstick, that probably didn’t help your case much”.

Harry imagined his one-year-old self insisting that toothbrushes were for flying, and shook his head. “Probably James’s fault, he was always insisting on bringing Quidditch into everything you did. Your cot mobile had snitches on it, you had a cuddly Quaffle… I think Lily yelled at him when he tried to teach you to hit mini Bludgers away with your spoon though.” Lupin’s eyes shone at the memory.

Harry spluttered, almost coughing up his drink. Remus sighed fondly. “They’d be horrified at what I’m letting you drink. Lily would be yelling about responsibility and how you’re still not of age, and James and Sirius would be calling us both softies.

They continued that way for some time, Remus telling Harry stories of the Marauders, and their crazy antics. He was particularly pleased to discover that Remus and Sirius used to babysit him, and that Sirius always insisted on transporting him by motorbike on those occasions. Harry got the impression that his werewolf Godfather was secretly a fan of the flying motorbike, even if he did keep mentioning how scary it was.

Eventually, though, once Harry had drunk so much he wasn’t entirely sure which side of the table he was on, because both sides of the kitchen had started to look the same, Remus helped him up and tried to drag him up the stairs. “Come on Haz, you’re practically seeing stars. What would your mother say?”

“Shesh’d tell me imma good boy and she lovesh me” Harry spluttered.

“Yeah, and she’d yell at me if i left you on a heap on the stairs.” Remus was still some enough to form sentences, although the pair of them were struggling to walk in anything resembling a straight line. Harry was beginning to feel straightness was overrated, anyway. 

“Nah” he mumbled, “shleep on the shtairsh”.

“Mr. Potter, I’ll have you know that I have the best bed in the house awaiting me. Do you know why it’s the best bed in the House of Black? Because it’s fucking Sirius’s”. Remus practically clicked his fingers. Had the aforementioned Mr. Black been there, he would have laughed himself silly at the sight of his sassy drunken Moony. “AND,” he continued dramatically, “it’s for fucking Siriuses!”

 

Harry’s first thought upon waking was that the pattern on the duvet was hideous. His second and third thoughts, in quick succession, were that his head _hurt_ and that he had absolutely no idea where he was.

*

 _Panic!_ Suddenly, Harry was awake in an uncomfortable, tangled heap, his glasses askew, someone else’s limbs jutting awkwardly into his, and a blanket thrown haphazardly over them both. The walls were bare stone, and the narrow slit-windows let in thin shafts of light. There was no way this was the Gryffindor Common Room, let alone the Sixth Year boys’ dormitory. Why here on earth was he, and how had he got there?

Then it hit him like the Hogwarts Express running at full tilt. _The Astronomy Tower_. That’s where he was. Harry leapt out from under the blanket, struggling to free his limbs from the other person, and raced to the window, grabbing the broom that was propped against the wall of the round room on his way, and praying he wasn't too late already. _He had to get to Dumbledore before he hit the ground!_

“Just where do you think you;re going, Mr Potter?” The voice that echoed around the tower room never failed to fill Harry with dread. Of course! Snape had probably cast a spell or something to make Dumbledore fall!

“I’ve… Got to get… To Dumbledore… Before he hits the ground!” harry panted, wracking his brains for a spell that would enlarge the narrow slit windows enough for him to wriggle through. He was pretty skinny, he knew, so the gap wouldn't need to be much bigger…

“Mr. Potter, stop that at once!”

“NO!” Harry screamed, “I’ve GOT TO GET TO HIM!”

“Mr. Potter, stop!” Snape was losing his temper. “The Headmaster is dead! Diving out of the window on some dim-witted rescue mission is no use to him now!”

Harry froze. Dumbledore couldn't be dead! “NO!” he yelled again, “YOU'RE LYING TO ME!”

“Mr. Potter, I’m afraid not. Now, please refrain from yelling, as it is precisely four thirty-two in the morning and the rest of the castle does not need to be awoken by such news.”

Dumbstruck, Harry back down, and began to work through the previous day’s events in his head, his vision swimming.

*

Still panting, Harry located his glasses and managed to lodge them onto his face. As his vision stopped swimming, he gazed at his surroundings, one hand reaching up to feel his scar. No, the pain in his head was not thanks to Voldemort, for once, and, upon closer inspection, he appeared to be in the room he’d chosen yesterday at Grimmauld Place. He huffed out a short sigh of relief.

 

After a few minutes of lying very still, Harry’s brain could function enough to be very very grateful to whoever had chosen the curtains for this room. Although the purple flower pattern looked even worse hung vertically, they kept the room pleasantly dark. After a while longer staring blankly at the (thankfully not purple or floral-patterned) ceiling, his brain began to do what it seemed to do best these days: finding things to worry about.

In this case, fate seemed to have been most unkind to Harry: not only did he have a hangover, but his brain had chosen this precise moment to fret over the fate of one Draco Malfoy. Why had he fallen from the Astronomy Tower? Part of Harry feared the git might have jumped. Was it just some twisted kind of luck that put Harry in the path of his fall? Or did he slip off by accident? Was he pushed? Malfoy had barely said a word to anyone after they’d woken up in the Tower room, but Harry had got the distinct impression that he wasn’t looking forward to going home for the summer, and that he’d essentially failed what Harry suspected was a task assigned to him by the Dark Lord. What was happening to him now? Would he have to face Voldemort’s wrath? Was Malfoy going to become a fully-fledged Death Eater? Was he one already? It hurt to think, there were so many questions gnawing away at his brain. 

Eventually, though, the pain in his head and stomach relented enough for him to stagger downstairs. Remus was already sat at the kitchen table, nose again buried in a book, seemingly with no title. He looked up and smiled, barely holding in a chuckle at Harry’s wretchedness. He pushed a tall glass across the table. “Drink up”. Harry took several large gulps and felt his headache start to dissipate. Chocolate milk laced with hangover potion has the power to cure most minor ills, after all.

He grinned up at amber eyes. “Thanks”.

Remus laughed, now. “Not at all, Harry. Toast?”

“Please.” Lupin flicked his wand, and the rickety Muggle toaster on the counter behind him sprung creakily into action.

Harry rubbed at his temple as he chewed his third piece of toast. “That hangover potion not quite cut it, Haz?”

“No, no, the pain from that’s all gone, and my stomach doesn't feel like I’m in the middle of the sea any more.” Harry grinned sheepishly, “I think this headache’s just from worrying too much”.

“Anything I can help with?”

Harry sighed. “I’m, um, concerned, about um,” he trailed off. Remus smiled gently at him. “I think Voldemort is going to do something to Malfoy” he managed, “And - and I don't think Malfoy wants to be a Death Eater”.

“Ah, I see. Is he of age?”

Harry nodded. “Or at least, I think so.”

“i’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something, then. No-one should be forced into taking a side in this war, least of all an innocent person to the hand of Voldemort.” Remus’ eyes darkened just a shade.

 

Harry sat on his ugly purple bedspread, idly considering trying to transfigure the roses into something more appealing. Like snitches, perhaps. Or stars. Or anything less repulsive.

 _Even Draco Malfoy is less vile-looking than that pattern_ , the irritating corner of his brain supplied. Harry grudgingly supposed he had to agree. Well, there was a strange thought. The idea of having Malfoy’s ferret face on his bed, day and night, was more appealing than something.

He rolled over on the bed, mind drifting. The Grimmauld Place Speciality Boredom was setting in: Harry had already unpacked everything in his trunk and distributed it around the room, found himself a desk at which to do his homework from one of the many other bedrooms, rearranged his entire room, put his toiletries in the bathroom across the hall, and discovered he’d left his favourite shower gel in Gryffindor Tower. And he’d tried on every single one of his jumpers, before grudgingly admitting that his Weasley jumper from Christmas in Third Year really was too small even to wear in bed. He had node how to play the piano, he couldn’t think of any particularly urgent household tasks, and he was the sole occupant of the entire house until Remus returned from a meeting with Shacklebolt. Harry had hoped to be allowed to go too, but the Order resolutely would not allow him to join until after his birthday. Suckers.

He sighed, and began mentally preparing himself for the process of getting off the bed (he _almost_ caught himself wishing the covers did have Ferret Face on; at least that would be amusing). The only thing left on Harry’s list was take a shower - mainly because he couldn’t be bothered. Besides, memories of Grimmauld Place’s showers weren't exactly warm and delightful, and Harry’s favourite shower gel was still at school, which left him with the soap Mrs Figg had sent him for Christmas about three years ago. It didn’t actually smell that bad, but it had bits of what looked like dead fleas and cat hair in it, and up until now, Harry had managed to avoid investigating further.

The hot water, combined with almost a week’s depravity, had its usual effect on Harry. Today, even the fact that the tile pattern inside the shower matched the flowers on his duvet couldn't stop his prick from standing to attention in the haze of shower-steam. Harry forced himself to wash first, before leaning back against the tiles and beginning to take care of it.

At first he shut his eyes and let his dick do the thinking - although he was pleased to note that this time, significantly less effort was required to keep the images of red hair and soft curves away. His breathing quickened in time with the pumping motion of his hand, premium dripping from the end and being washed away by the hammering water.

Harry let out a moan, delighting in the way that the sound echoed around the bathroom, and the fact that there was no-one else around to hear. He moved his hand faster, breath quickening, balls tightening and drawing up, and opened his eyes -  
\- And screamed, as he came - because the tile pattern had turned into Draco Malfoy, and his everything was on _fire_ , in the bestest possible way, and that face was _stunning_ and he kind of wanted to see how it would look with his come dripping off that pointy chin, and -

He slumped against the wall as the now-cooling water washed away the last of his semen, the tiles pressing against his face. No, he would not think about that. Harry Potter was just going to calmly get himself out of the shower - quickly, before he got hypothermia - and get dressed and go about his normal life. Whatever that was. And maybe he’d try and transfigure that pattern too.

 

If Harry had found Grimmauld Place dull on his first day there, it was nothing compared to how the place felt once the list of things to do truly was exhausted. Thinking about Horcruxes and Voldemort-vanquishing seemed only to lead him in circles that rapidly turned into guilt, so he’d opted to distract himself by getting ahead with his summer homework. The strategy had sort of worked, too, until he’d run out. If Harry had’t had Hermione Granger as a friend for the last six years, he’d have thought getting all of your holiday work done in under a week was some kind of record. He’d also made several attempts at changing the pattern on his bedspread, but had every time given up in frustration (aside from once, on Wednesday evening, where he’d got one of the roses on his pillow to look as though it had a rather distinctive pointed chin, but Harry had found that rather concerning, and had transfigured the thing back).

As he was contemplating whether or not he could reach the biscuit jar without standing up, Harry heard the front door open. He tensed.

“Harry!”

“Hello, Remus,” Harry smiled at the sight of his Godfather.

“How d’ya fancy coming to the Order meeting tonight? You can’t volunteer for anything, mind, but you can listen in.”

Green eyes lit up “Can I? Finally?”

“Suddenly, the idea of letting you join in doesn't seem so bad if it means they can use here” Remus wore a rather cheeky grin. It made him seem younger, somehow. Harry rather suspected that he had insisted Harry be allowed to participate if they wanted to use Grimmauld Place.

Harry was prowling the halls of Grimmauld Place in a rather restless fashion, trying to come up with a Plan. The first problem with this seemed to be that his brain simply couldn't settle on what to plan for first. Should he be trying to figure out where to go next with respect to the Horcruxes? Trying to anticipate Voldemort’s next move? He hadn’t had any dreams that made his scar hurt for a while now - just the regular sort of nightmares where people close to him died in flashes of green light. Should he be coming up with a plan to free Malfoy from the clutches of the Dark Lord? Harry supposed his lack of actual ideas for what to do next about any of these problems was actually the thing holding him back. Oh, he missed Ron and Hermione.

A rather rude awakening came in the form of a sharp _rap_ on the front door. Harry and Remus both dashed to it, appearing from opposite sides of the house. After almost a week - and Remus had been there even longer - stuck inside the house, the idea of some outside company was very exciting for both of them.

On the doorstep stood the sneering, greasy form of one Severus Snape. “Severus-“ Remus began, at the same time as Harry said “Professor-“. One slimy black eyebrow was raised.

“Potter. Your mother’s sister is named Petunia, maiden name Evans. Lupin, I once had the misfortune in our fifth year of walking in on yourself and the former owner of this house in the Prefects’ Bathroom.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue that surely they should be asking _him_ questions, not the other way around, but a slightly pink-cheeked Remus was already ushering his favourite professor into the house. 

“Mr. Potter, you doubtless have a thousand inane questions regarding my presence here.” He actually sounded less snide than usual. _Perhaps he’s sick_ Harry thought to himself. “Professor Dumbledore kindly informed me of the location of this place so that I might be made Secret Keeper in the event of his death.”

“He _knew_ he was going to die?” Harry couldn't decide whether to be utterly incredulous or highly irritated. “Did he know that stuff he drank would kill him?”

“I had informed him such on multiple occasions, yes.” Snape replied tersely, “however, he chose to believe that I could find an antidote to the poison, irrespective of my warnings. As it happened, he misjudged the poison in any case. The effects of the one that caused his death cannot be reversed.”

Harry swallowed, suddenly unsure. The information Snape had just told him set alight a fire of anger, anger at Dumbledore for dying, that had been kindled within him at the funeral. That funeral seemed so very long ago. The rage rose up in his chest, filling him with the desire to _scream_ and hit things, anything. 

Snape appeared to notice Harry’s internal struggle. “You did the right thing for the situation in dropping his body, Potter. A youthful and innocent life was preserved, and myself, Madam Pomfery and Professor McGonagall were able to keep the true cause of the Headmaster’s death out of that disgusting gossip rag by declaring him to have fallen.” He sighed heavily.

“But what will happen to Malfoy now?” Harry realised that Snape, although a greasy bastard, was probably his only real hope of helping the git, if he even was truly a spy for the Order.

“Mr Malfoy is currently at home with his family.” Snape shot Harry an odd look.

“But he said - before the end of term, he said something about a task for Voldemort and having failed and…” Harry trailed off as Snape paled visibly.

“Did he now?”

The door to the sitting room they were in creaked open, Remus appeared from behind it bearing a tray of tea and some crumbly-looking biscuits. “Taking on Potter’s role, now, are we, Lupin?” Snape seemed to regain some of his usual malice.

Harry was both confused and offended momentarily, until he spotted Remus smiling. “Back when we were at Hogwarts, Harry, your dad was forever fussing over his friends and making sure we’d all brushed our teeth and brought our books along. By sixth or seventh year, it was a joke among most of our year group that he was a complete Mother Hen.”

“I’m here on Order business, as I’m sure you’re aware, Lupin. There will be action imminently to compensate for certain events that have occurred recently, and plans will need to be made to compensate for this.”

“Will Malfoy get to go on raids, or is he not a proper Death Eater yet, since he failed to do whatever it was Voldemort wanted?” Harry couldn’t help wondering.

“He will likely be made to spearhead an attack front, to prove his worth-“ Snape stopped mid-sentence to take a sip of his tea. “Actually, that might work. Yes. If Draco is willing, I believe I have a means to extract him. I will speak with him, and send word in time for tonight’s meeting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for getting this far! You can find me over on tumblr as vicki-potter-malfoy <3


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